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Is it the disloyal or the loyal part of me that’s so relieved?
Jase lifts his hands over his head, bending from one side to another, stretching, closing his eyes. Very softly, almost under his breath, he says, “Mom’s pregnant.”
“What?”
“I don’t know for sure. I mean, not exactly the right timing for the a
“Wow,” I say, sitting down hard in one of the kitchen chairs.
“It’s a good thing, right? I should be glad. I’ve always been glad before, but…”
“Not exactly the right timing,” I echo.
“I feel so damn guilty sometimes, Sam, lately, for the things I find myself thinking.” For some reason, well as we know each other, I’ve never thought about Jase feeling things like guilt.
He just seems too healthy, too balanced for that.
“You know how much those people piss me off,” he continues, still in such a low voice, as though he doesn’t even want to hear what he’s saying. “The ones who come up to Mom in the supermarket or wherever and tell her there’s such a thing as birth control. Or this asshole guy who fixed the generator at the store last month. When Dad asked him if he could pay in installments, the guy said, ‘Didn’t you know you’d be broke all the time if you had so many kids?’ I wanted to deck him. But…sometimes I think that too. I wonder why my parents didn’t ever…imagine…what having another kid would mean each of us not having. I hate myself for it. But I think it.”
I take his face in my hands, holding tight. “You can’t hate yourself.”
“I do. It’s just wrong. Like, who would I want to do without? Harry? Patsy? Andy? None of them…
but…but Samantha, I’m only kid number three and there’s already no money for college. What’s go
I think of George’s somber face bent over his animal books, of all the facts at his fingertips. “George is like his own college,” I say. “Garrett U.”
Jase laughs. “Yeah. You’re right. But…I’m not like that. I want to go to college. I want to be…good enough.” He pauses. “For you. Not that guy from the quote-unquote wrong side of the tracks, Samantha.”
“That’s her. It’s not me.”
“I guess part of it’s me, then,” he says heavily, “because, Samantha…look at you.”
“I’m just some girl with an easy life and a trust fund. With no problems. Look at you.” Then I have a horrible thought. “Do you…like…resent me for that?”
He snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I? You don’t take it for granted. You work hard all the time.” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t even resent Tim anymore. I did, for a while, ’cause he seemed so oblivious. But he really isn’t. And his parents are the worst.”
“Aren’t they?” There’s Mr. Mason, sleeping his way through life in his recliner, ignorant to everything, and Mrs. Mason with her cheery voice and her cheery Hummel figurines and her miserable children. I think of Nan. Will she turn out like her mom?
“Jase,” I say slowly. “I’ve got…some money. Saved. It doesn’t mean to me what it means to you. I could—”
“No,” he says, his voice harsh. “Just stop it. Don’t.”
The silence between us now is heavy and still, stifling. Different. I hate it. I fuss with gathering enough bowls out of the cabinets, finding spoons, keeping my hands busy.
Jase stretches, locking his fingers behind his head. “I’ve gotta remember how lucky I am. My parents may be broke, things may be bad now, but they’re great. When we were little, Alice used to ask Mom if we were rich. She always said we were rich in all the things that matter. I need to remember she’s right.” So like Jase, to pull himself right back to counting blessings.
He comes close, touches my chin with a roughened finger. “Kiss me, Sam, so I can forgive and forget myself.”
“You’re forgiven, Jase Garrett, for being only human,” I say.
He’s so easy to forgive. No sins at all. Not like my mom. Not like me. When our lips meet, I don’t feel the familiar warmth and ease. I feel like Judas.
Chapter Forty-two
There’s a big hole where Nan should be. I could go to her and tell her everything and surely Nan would listen and maybe even help me find my way. Of all people, Nan would understand. She was there the day I got my period, on the te
and hustled him into a cold shower (didn’t help) and made him coffee (likewise) before putting him to bed to sleep it off. She was there when Tracy had a huge “day” party at our house while Mom was at work, then left with her boyfriend, leaving us—at fourteen—to kick out forty older teenagers and clean the house before Mom returned.
But now she doesn’t answer texts, or return periodic calls. When I come by the gift shop, she busies herself with customers or says, “I’m on my way to inventory the stockroom/have lunch/see my supervisor.”
How did our entire friendship, the whole twelve years we’ve known each other, get canceled out by what I saw? Or what she did. Or what I said about what she did. I can’t let her just walk away like this, I tell myself, though Nan seems to have no problem doing exactly that. So, at five o’-clock, the end of the B&T day, I catch up with her as she’s making out an order form.
When I put my hand on her shoulder, she twitches it off, reflexively, like a horse shaking off a troublesome fly.
“Nan. Na
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Well, I’ve got things to say to you. We’ve been friends since we were five. That counts for nothing?
You hate me now?”
“I don’t hate you.” For an instant there’s a flicker of an emotion I can’t identify in Nan’s eyes, then she drops her gaze, turning the key on the cash register to lock it. “I don’t hate you, but we’re just too different. It’s too much work to be your friend.”
This last is unexpected. “Too much work? How?” Could I be high-maintenance without knowing it? I scan through my memories. Have I gone on too long about my mother to her? Have I talked too much about Jase? But I know, I know, it’s been at least equal. I’ve listened for hours to the Tim drama-fest. I’ve heard every twist and turn in her relationship with Daniel. I’ve sympathized with her over her parents. I’ve seen her beloved Steve McQueen movies with her even though I’ve never really gotten the charm. All that counts for nothing?
She straightens up, looking me in the eye. Her hands are unsteady, I notice.
“You’re rich and beautiful. You have the perfect life, the perfect body, the perfect grade point average, and you never have to work for a thing,” she hisses at me. “Nothing comes hard to you, Samantha. It all drops into your lap. Michael Kristoff still writes poetry about you. I know that because he was in my fiction class this spring. Charley Tyler tells everyone you’re the hottest girl in the school. And lies about having had sex with you. I know that because someone told Tim and Tim told me. Now this Jase Garrett, who’s definitely too gorgeous to be real, thinks you hung the moon. It makes me sick. You make me sick.
Hanging around with you and being your sidekick is way too much work.” Her voice drops even lower.
“Not to mention the fact that now you know something about me that you could use to ruin my life.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say softly, trying to swallow down the hurt. My chest feels so tight, I can’t take a deep breath. Way too much work, Nan? What, because there’s no way to cheat at being a friend? “Don’t you know me at all? I would never do that. I just— You don’t need to cheat—you’re too smart in every way to do that, and I want to be your friend and…and I need you. Something happened to Jase’s dad and—”